Standing in the Shadows
Sept 30 2006


In Vietnam it is called the “American War”,
as if it had happened somewhere else.
Or as if the Vietnamese themselves had been merely incidental
— standing in the shadows as they watched,
perhaps oohing and aahing with approving applause
as fireballs of Napalm lit-up the darkness.

Vietnamese women are beautiful
and modest,
averting their eyes in the presence of a man.
The white Americans were ugly, they thought;
but said nothing.
And the black Americans were exotic,
which made them seem dangerous.
But real money buys a lot in a war zone,
and there are women who get aroused by danger.

Looking down from a plane
war has a distinct geography,
a peculiar beauty that starts to grow on you.
There are tracer bullets at night
arcing through darkness like showers of silent sparks.
And the antiseptic blue of unlimited ceilings.
And the poisonous symmetry of Agent Orange,
cutting gaps in the endless green canopy
with Cartesian precision.

But defoliated land does not remain a desert.
And while Napalm burns-off the tops of trees
the roots remain protected.
So the landscape is now as green and succulent as ever;
especially at dawn,
when cool mist drifts through lush tropical forests
and the pale light angles-in low and long.

So “North” and “South” belong to the last generation.
And diplomats of enemy nations exchange formal bows,
then talk about free-trade and rates of exchange.
And in the boulevards of Ho Chi Minh City
the men still smoke outside of French cafes.

And there are slim children
dashing about in noisy play.
They wear loose shorts and cotton tops,
too big for stick legs and skinny bodies.
And then the others,
with a large nose
or stiff hair
or a darker face,
who stand in the shadows and watch.